


Silk & Lace

by madrabbitgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Canon Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Demon possession, F/F, F/M, Ghost Possession, Gratuitous abuse of italics, Haunted brothel AU, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Multi, Murder Mystery themes, Spiritualism, seances, victorian fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: John, devastated by the events at Reichenbach, decides to move on with his life by taking a beautiful young lady to be his wife. Sadly, she has a fixation with Spiritualism and seances, and she talks him into summoning the ghost of his dead friend, Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't quite know what she managed to summon, but the thing now inhabiting her body -they call me Crowley- says he knows where the real Sherlock is. They take off together for Paris, one ex-army doctor and one demon-possessed woman.Meanwhile, in Paris, using the name Sigerson, Sherlock is searching for the final clue that will end Moriarty's old web of crime. He is assisted by 'one of Mycroft's agents', a man named Fell, who seems more into playing guardian angel than actually investigating anything. Their inquiries take them to the hottest spot in Paris, the Moulin Rouge, where anything,anythingcan happen.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), John Watson/Original Female Character(s), John Watson/Original Male Character(s), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Toulouse Lautrec/Everyone
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Be prepared for so many historical inaccuracies!
> 
> I do use BBC Sherlock as the basis for my characters, especially sweet Jimmy boy. Disclaimer, of course, is that I own none of these things and I'm just playing with the characters, as my dirty little demon hands tend to do.

_Fraternizing!_

Crowley was in _no fucking mood_ for this today. His cane tapped away as he walked, with every click punctuating a word as he replayed the hideous conversation he’d been subjected to. 

Insurance!

Click.

Obviously!

Click.

_Fraternizing!_

Click!

Crowley’s face was creased with angry lines, glowering as he walked back towards his own flat. 

Just who did that angel think he was? Crowley had half a mind to-

_Bang! Clatter, Crack! Oof-_

Snap.

The cane returned to his hand and the gentleman he’d collided with during his distracted wandering was sent off, unfortunately with a minor curse that would give the next several generations in his line very hairy toes, but honestly, the man deserved it and should’ve been watching out for irrational, irritated demons. Demons whose best friends were stupid angels who couldn’t wrap their bloody brains around the fact that their demon best friend-

Oh, he was too sober to have this discussion with himself, Crowley thought.

The fact that Aziraphale thought him suicidal or, or that Crowley would want to _destroy_ himself when he was actually attempting to do something _n-i-c-e_ and look out for the angel- Well. Aziraphale was being utterly unreasonable. 

Crowley tossed his cane to the other side of his flat and summoned a drink with a graceful snap of his finger. Several snaps later, Crowley could concede that, perhaps, he might have been a little unreasonable, too, but it took enough wine to kill a human and only within the privacy of his own rooms was he willing to admit it. Perhaps one day in the far future, when he was through feeling sorry for himself (ha! Like that was going to happen), he could try to see it from the angel’s perspective. Sadly, that wasn’t going to be today. Or probably within the next century. 

“Frrraternizing,” Crowley grumbled again, draining the wine glass before sending it hurling into a wall. His anger had long lost it’s fire but when you’re this many sheets to the wind sometimes you just do things for the _aesthetic_ fun. He pushed himself up and headed towards his bedchamber, loosening his cravat and buttons as he went. He paused by the looking glass, with his fingers running thoughtfully and delicately along his jaw. His lips were well and truly stained with wine and he contemplated the pretty red color. 

“How about I ssstay away for a while, then? Sssee how he likes having _no one_ to fraternize with?” 

Perhaps he’d try a female corporation for a while? He admired the rougey color on his lips and imagined his hair long and flowing over his shoulders. Even though he’d never said so, he knew that Aziraphale admired his hair the most when it was long. He’d never been able to resist-

Oh, fuck, he was already caving in and it had been less than a day. No, Aziraphale needed to be taught a lesson and that wasn’t going to happen with Crowley awake. 

“Alright, alright. Mmnnggg, we need a- yanno, nng, the thing. Bullet pointss, s’important, tells you where to go. Plan! We need a plan,” Crowley mumbled to himself. With a quick snap, he was in more comfortable clothes. Loose, fine linen and in an unholy shade of black that humans couldn’t achieve with dyes found in nature. He crawled onto his large bed and slithered beneath the blankets. Naps were always good, and if he played his cards right, he’d stay out for a few years. That’ll teach the angel.

He’d just about drifted off when his eyes snapped open. 

Emergencies! That’s what the whole fight had been about, anyway! It was one thing to ignore the angel on a lark but a wholly other thing to be so out of it that he couldn’t dive in for an exciting rescue if need be. Alright, sleep, but with ‘one ear open’ so to speak. Leave a bit of his consciousness floating about in case the angel needed him. That was a good plan. 

Another snap and a sighed curse later, and Crowley was fast asleep.

_A Few Years Later, In A Different Flat_

Sherlock Holmes had a definite flare for the dramatic. Watson had often described him as cold and indifferent, an inhuman machine whose only function was to solve puzzles and catch criminals. While this was an aspect of his personality, it was only one, as Watson later found out when greeted with many instances of swirling dressing gowns, tantrum-like sulks and the never-ending parade of costumed characters Sherlock often assumed for cases. Sherlock’s flare for the dramatic solved just as many cases as his love of reason.

Which is why, on this disgustingly grey day, he was poised at his window with his violin tucked under his chin and his back to the door of his flat. He had already looked at the clues, solved the case at hand, and now he waited as his opponent moved their pieces into play. Such a pity Watson couldn’t be here to document the event. 

In this position, his visitor would only be able to see him from the back, silhouetted against the windows. The afternoon light might outline the pale curve of his face, but very little else. It would look dramatic and beautiful, and he knew that his opponent would appreciate the effort. 

Unfortunately for Sherlock, this also meant that the visitor, whose considerably large brain and bulging eyes processed as much as his own, had ample opportunity to leave a little gift behind without him being aware of it. After the item had been placed, Professor Moriarty cleared his throat, alerting Sherlock of his presence and giving the cue to their final battle. Or so it would seem. 

“Ah! Professor Moriarty!” 

Thin lips twisted into a sweet smile and the gentle cadence of an Irish accent replied so sweetly, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please consider checking out my other fic here or come chat at me on Tumblr.
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	2. Chapter 2

John would never admit it, as it felt distinctly unmasculine to do so, but he was tiptoeing down the stairs. Sneaking about like a common thief in a house his medical practice had paid for was not ideal, however he _was_ avoiding someone who also lived there and, as his military days had taught him, stealth was sometimes necessary in delicate missions. Such as going to work. 

Holmes would have laughed at that. Perhaps he would have made some sort of jibe as to how John Watson had as much stealth as a bull in a shop full of china and crystal, however Holmes was not here and Violet very much was and John just didn’t want to speak to her at this particular moment.

He wasn’t proud of himself for venturing out the night before. Thankfully, Violet kept a close grip on John’s chequebook as well as their finances and she was used to him being tempted into playing cards when he was in a foul enough temper to lose everything they had. As it was, he had a wretched hangover and he just didn’t have time for a lecture regarding Spiritualism at this hour of the morning. 

“Oh, John!” 

Blast!

The good doctor turned to wincingly smile at his coquettish wife. While it was common practice for men to take a wife much younger than themselves, he often wondered if she was just a _bit_ too immature for him. She was still given to girlish fancies about ghosts and ghouls, made worse by the recent trend of seances and sorcery that had taken hold of London. Too often had John been forced to sit through some evening lecture that claimed to contact the dead. Living with Holmes had given him more than a fair amount of skepticism (even if he did sometimes believe in ghosts himself). 

“Violet,” John said, gracing her with a tight smile. She beamed at him and stepped up to kiss his cheeks. To her credit, she was a bonny little thing, with large brown eyes and blonde hair swept into a demure style. She was just the type of woman John had always assumed he would marry. He couldn’t have done better if he’d picked her out of a book. 

“Are you off to the office, my love?” she asked, her hand resting sweetly on his arm. John nodded, and lifted her hand from his sleeve so that he could reach for his hat. 

“That I am, dear,” John agreed. “Were you in need of my assistance before I go?” 

“Oh, I only had a favor to ask of you. It shan’t be but a moment of your time,” Violet promised.

“For my sweet wife? Anything,” John replied in his most charming voice. In all honesty, he had found her company a little stifling of late and on more than one occasion had to call her ‘dear’ or ‘sweetness’ to cover up for the fact that he couldn’t always remember her name. Violet smiled at him all the same, and he had the feeling that he would regret not finding out what she desired before promising it to her. “How can I be of service?”

“Well, you know how simply devastated I’ve been since my mother passed away,” Violet began. John knew well that his young wife sorely missed her mother, who had been a patient of John’s prior to her death. It was how John met his wife, in fact. He still couldn’t stifle his groan as he guessed at where Violet was going with her request.

“No, no, no, Violet. No more of this Spiritualist bunk, I beg of you,” John said. He turned from her and picked up his medical bag from where it rested next to the door, sitting it on top of a bench that decorated the front hall. He opened the bag, checking to make sure that all of his supplies were in order. 

“My love,” she began in a very condescending tone, indeed. It made him almost proud of her. “Spiritualism is a valid system of beliefs that many of the best scholars follow. Have you not been listening during the lectures we’ve attended?” 

“No. I’ve been calculating how much money we’ve wasted on charlatans and magic acts. There is no contacting the spirits, Violet. Once the dead are departed, they do not return,” John told her firmly. He truly didn’t mean for his tone to be so snappish, however she ought to know- 

Perhaps she did not. Men lost dear friends all the time, and in horrifying ways. He knew that from his days in the army as well, but Sherlock… Well, it did not do to dwell on it. 

He could already feel the grip of panic that lodged inside his throat at the idea that Holmes had been in trouble and he’d been powerless to save him. He clenched his jaw and pressed his eyes tightly shut, breathing in through his nose. Sadly, his little wife did not notice his distress, and continued her pleading.

“Husband, I ask for so very little of you, you must grant me this one request. Mrs. Davenport is a celebrated expert in her field,” Violet explained. John scoffed.

“You mean a fraud,” John injected. Violet’s delicate features twisted into a scowl. “What is it this time? A new book on the subject? Another hypnotic trance gathering with your friends?”

“If you must know, Mrs. Davenport is a spiritual medium and is one of Henrietta’s most trusted confidantes. She has told me that she senses my mother near me and perhaps by contacting her we can bring her spirit closure,” Violet said. Her doe-like eyes were welling up with tears. “You know I long to speak with my mother again, and if I could do so just one more time-” 

“Violet,” John started but she held up a hand to stop him. Guilt washed over him as a few tears spilled down her cheeks. 

“No. I should have thought that you, of all people, would know how I feel. You may not wish to speak of it, John, but I know there is someone you also long for,” Violet ground out between sulky, clenched teeth. Her eyes accused him of something he dare not name. 

“Have your party, if you must. You act as though I’m a monster, but I have been a good husband to you,” John told her, feeling the strain of their marriage acutely. “I have given you a good home and never abused you, never forced you into anything you didn’t want-”

“Yes, yes, of course, Saint John,” Violet said, waving her hands at him. She was already lost in the glee of being allowed to have her party. “Best of husbands. Run along, now, Dr. Watson. It wouldn't do to keep your patients waiting!” 

Before he could say something peevish back to her, she was already dancing down the hallway, chattering to herself about plans for the party. John huffed and put on his hat, snatched up his bag, and started out to his office. 

It had been three years since John’s heart had been smashed at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls, dashed and disappeared on those cold rocks with the loud noise of rushing waters all around. He had hoped by this point in his life he wouldn’t think of it so often. His nightmares of war hadn’t plagued him in ages and what was life with Sherlock Holmes but a type of war? It hadn’t helped that he and Sherlock- well, those things were best left unsaid. Pledges made in the dead of night and without an audience were hardly worth anything. 

_”I’d be dead without my Boswell…_

Their rooms in Sweden had been dimly lit the night before that fateful walk, which made John’s memory of that evening all the more foreboding and haunted. Holmes had perched himself in a chair, with his behind on the top, balancing with his feet planted on the seat, puffing away at his pipe like some dragon on a mountain, his mind hoarding facts like gold. 

“You understand, Watson, that Moriarty is the greatest criminal that has ever lived,” Holmes said. The way his eyes stared off into the distance, something he did often as he sorted through his brain attic, held a frantic energy that John didn’t trust. He was on the verge of asking Holmes if he relapsed into his love affair with cocaine, however he knew a lack of trust could be detrimental to recovery. Not to mention he couldn’t fathom, with the way they’d been travelling, that Holmes would have snuck out to procure some and John had searched through their luggage during one of the few calm moments they’d had. 

“Yes, Holmes, you’ve said. Several times,” John pointed out, eyebrows raised. 

“You’ll be home again soon, of that I’m sure, Watson. You always get so out of sorts when you travel,” Holmes scolded, with those plush lips curving upwards at the corners in a teasing smile. His eyes were glittering. John pretended to be offended. 

“I do nothing of the sort, Holmes!” John said. He swirled his after-supper drink, glancing up at Holmes again. “I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”

“Yes,” Holmes purred, his voice dipping into that low octave that caused shivers to dance at the base of John’s spine. He angled his chin upwards. “You’ve always been the most perfect English gentleman. How it must vex you to live with a bohemian such as myself.”

“Now you’re just teasing me,” John said with a smirk. “Well, you’ll find I will not rise to your bait.”

“By not doing so you are both exhibiting those polite manners I was speaking of and proving me correct, which I do enjoy immensely,” Holmes teased. “John Watson, the perfect gentleman.” 

“Not so perfect, Holmes,” John said with a sigh, unable to enjoy his drink any further. He put it on the table at his side. “I can’t help but feel there is something you’re not telling me.”

“I’ve explained the case to you quite thoroughly, Watson. The evidence I’ve compiled against our good friend, Professor Moriarty, is in Lestrade’s capable hands now and his companions in crime are under lock and key,” Holmes said, but it was gentler than John had ever heard him before. Holmes detested repeating himself and, when he was made to do it, there was usually some edge of malice or arrogance. This time, however, there was a tenderness that John wasn’t used to. It only caused him to panic more. “Our conversation- well, perhaps there were a few things regarding my meeting with the professor that I may have left out for your own benefit.” 

John leaned forward in his chair, feeling warmth flood his face as he considered what his friend might have kept from him. “Secrets have never been to anyone’s benefit.” 

“I will disagree with you there, my dear Watson. There are one or two things about me that would shock and horrify you. With regards to Moriarty, I merely kept a few small details. You hardly needed to know that he referred to you as a bovine, for which I threatened to shoot him,” Holmes purred with a satisfied smirk. John felt himself smiling, despite the mournful, urgent atmosphere that emanated from his friend. 

“There are many things about me that would shock you as well, Holmes. And I don’t need you defending my honor, although I do appreciate it. I’m not your damsel, Holmes,” John joked, wondering if he was imagining the shift the conversation was taking. Holmes had abandoned his pipe and he was slipping himself off of the top of the chair to land softly in the seat. He inched forward as well, watching John’s face. 

“No. Never my damsel, John. My… good friend,” Holmes murmured. John swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. 

“Holmes- Sherlock-” 

“I am afraid, Watson. I have no shame in admitting that I’m afraid. Moriarty will find us and I fear our problem, the little sparring match we’ve been presently engaged in, will be our last,” Sherlock said. “If something should happen-” 

“I won’t let it,” John promised fervently. Sherlock smirked at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“If something should,” Sherlock said. “I would rather you know all of my secrets than die having lived a lie. Not with you, John. Not with the man who knows me better than any other.” 

_“Doctor Watson!”_

John shook himself out of his daydreams, realizing that his young secretary was standing in the doorway to his office, calling his name. 

“I apologize, Miss Addington,” John said, straightening the notes he had in front of him.

“Are you well, sir? It was a very busy afternoon,” she asked. He offered her a thin smile.

“It was busy, wasn’t it? I’m perfectly fine, just doing a bit of daydreaming while I had a moment of peace. Is there another patient?” 

She shook her head. “No, sir. I’ve finished tidying up for the day and wondered if there was anything else you might require before I go home for the day.” 

“Ah,” John said, and he stood, stacking his papers to one side of his desk. “No, no, I’m almost finished here. You may go, Miss Addington. Have a pleasant evening.” 

“Yes, sir. You as well, sir,” the sweet girl said, giving a gentle bob before leaving the room. As soon as the outside door closed behind her, he sighed, leaning forward on his desk, clenching his eyes closed. 

He would never forgive himself for leaving Sherlock that fateful afternoon, especially after what they’d shared the night before. However, what was done was, indeed, done and it would do him no good to continue to dwell on it. John slowly gathered up his things, picked up his bag, and headed home for another evening of entertaining Violet Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please consider checking out my other fic here or come chat at me on Tumblr.
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual warnings. I guess period typical prostitution and drug use? I'm actually probably going to have a lot of historical inaccuracies, so please bear with me, but I promise I did a lot of research for this one.

On the dim streets of Paris, where heeled boots and carriage wheels echoed and the setting sun cast long shadows where temptations could linger, a tall, thin man in dark clothing walked, accompanied by a stout fellow in white clothes. They were a study in night and day. The shorter of the two men had pale, white-blonde hair and, despite being under orders not to draw attention to himself, he was attired in a pale suit that was several years out of fashion and more than a little shabby. His blonde hair fluffed up like a halo around his round face. As he spoke, his hands were wringing together in a worried frenzy.

“I know you’ve explained your methods before, Sigerson, but I’m afraid that I still don’t quite understand what we’re doing in Montmartre,” the petite blonde was saying in a soft voice. The much taller man’s hair was escaping his pomade and falling in dark curls across his pale forehead. 

The taller man, Sigerson, paused to light a cigarette. He scoffed at the words of the blonde man, sneering down at him. “If you’re having trouble following my reasons, Mr. Fell, then I must inform you that you are _very_ dull, indeed.” 

Fell’s eyes flashed indignantly, and he leveled Sigerson with, what he hoped was, a polite glare. He could tell that Sigerson was tired. The proof of it was etched in the lines around his eyes and the downward pull of his pouty lips. 

“Perhaps if you would tell me who sent you, I would explain it to you again,” Sigerson suggested. He took a long drag of his cigarette and started walking again. “I’ll even use very small words so you’re sure to understand this time.” 

Fell was very fed up with his most recent assignment. Sigerson was the most disagreeable and- and- and not polite man he’d met in a long time. He inhaled, pressing his lips together, before letting out a frustrated little sigh. “I’ve told you, Sigerson. Your brother sent me.” 

“Ha! I know that to be false. I may have my doubts about Brother Mycroft’s special agents, but even their most ineffective would not blunder their way through life the way that you do. If you will not be honest with me, Fell, then I see no reason to explain my plans to you,” Sigerson told him. He leveled Fell with a pointed glare. “Again.” 

“You- You are-” Fell was at a loss for words. The man’s temper was beyond infuriating. “You are barely functioning, sir. No matter who sent me, if it’s not an enemy then why should it matter? I am here to help you. The least you could do is tell me how to do so. And your brother _did_ send me.” 

It wasn’t _quite_ a lie.

“He was concerned that you would not be able to look after yourself and from what I’ve seen his fears are entirely realized,” Fell sniffed, annoyed at Sigerson, whose mouth was already curling up at the corners in the nasty facsimile of a smile. 

“See? I know you must be a false agent because Mycroft would never actually care,” Sigerson replied with a triumphant gleam to his eyes. 

Fell’s lips parted in a shocked gasp. “Your brother cares about you very much! I would not be here if he didn’t!” 

“Mmm, you tell yourself so, if you wish to believe such a fairy tale. I, however, know the interests of Mycroft Holmes better than you ever will,” Sigerson said as they continued to walk. Fell rolled his eyes. 

“You tell _yourself_ that but it’s simply not true,” Fell insisted. And it wasn’t. As it was, Mycroft had sent him in a round-about, prayed to God sort of way, not that Sigerson needed to know that. One did not just ignore the prayers of someone like Mycroft Holmes. They walked for a little while in silence before Sigerson decided to explain himself anyway. Probably, Fell thought, because he loved the sound of his own voice so much. 

“The web of crime created by the late Professor Moriarty,” his voice dropped to a whisper as he began his explanation, “was in shambles before I ever left London. There was one piece of the puzzle that was missing and it’s absence makes it dangerous. If anything is left, that means the work of the Professor will never truly end.” 

“If you are correct, sir,” Fell started, letting his fingers twist together again, “and you find this puzzle piece in Paris, do you think we could, perhaps, return to London? Does this mark the end of our journey?” His thick blond brows arched up hopefully.

“ _You_ may return to London anytime you wish,” Sigerson drawled. “Have you not been listening the entire time you’ve been following me across Europe?” 

“I’ve been listening to a lot of things,” Fell complained, his hopeful brows pulling back down into a disappointed frown. He sighed. He’d _listened_ quite closely to ‘Sigerson’ call him by someone else’s name on more than one occasion. _John, look at this!_ He’d listened as Sigerson had procured vials of something he claimed would make him work harder, faster, smarter, and he’d let him inject, despite being old enough to know better about the wonders of cocaine. He’d listened quite discreetly when Sigerson had seen the wedding announcement of a certain Doctor John Watson, and when he’d decided _not_ to listen that night when, under the cover of darkness, Sigerson had wept softly in his room. Of course, Fell had been listening! It was merely sometimes the actual facts of the case became a little muddled when there was so much else to hear. 

“The piece is not a thing, it is a person. A woman. Perhaps even _the_ Woman,” Sigerson told him. “She always did enjoy a good trick.” 

“You like women who know tricks, my fine friends, I know just the place!” a jovial voice called out. A man of a very small stature with a cane emerged from the shadows behind them, grinning brightly. Fell couldn’t quite be certain, but he was almost positive a sloshing sound was coming from within the cane he carried. “Some of the best women in Paris who know all sorts of tricks.” 

“Oh, I think you’ve got the wrong pair of men,” Fell objected, but the short, handsome man laughed and linked his arm with Fells, pulling him close even as the blonde tried to tug away. 

“We’ve got something for everyone in Paris, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the painter Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec Monfa,” the man said, reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand, leaning harder on Fell. He could smell the scent of alcohol wafting up and he winced at it. Henri withdrew his card from his pocket and held it aloft for Sigerson to pluck out of his fingers. 

“Comte. Raised in the country, spent your childhood between Paris and your Albi, preference for motherly figures. Oh, I see your surprise, monsieur, but I have French relatives in my family as well. You may know of them, the painter Vernet,” Sigerson shot off, flipping the card back and forth between his fingers. Henri adjusted his spectacles and offered a pleased smile.

“Which one, monsieur? There were so many,” he teased, continuing to grip Fell. “Have you heard of me, then, from your French cousins?” 

“I regret, I have not, however you may be of some use to us,” Sigerson told him. Fell squawked, unwilling to break away from his new friend as he had a strong suspicion the man was entirely drunk and needed the assistance but also not wanting any more distractions from the case. Sigerson smirked at him. “We are seeking a female artist, someone who is very good at copies. Perhaps you know of a few ladies that fit that description, Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec?” 

“Oh, _Henri_ , please, sir, if we are going to be friends. All of my friends call me by my first name,” Henri said. He patted Fell’s arm. “I know several ladies who fit that description, with one queen to rule them all. I can take you there. I do hope that you’ve saved some room for _pleasure_ , gentlemen, as there is so much of it in the court of her Majesty.” 

“There is always pleasure when you are lucky enough to enjoy your work, as I do,” Sigerson said, but his words held a cold, sarcastic tone. He held out a hand to Henri, covering the man’s smaller one with his own entirely. “I’m Sigerson. That is my associate Fell.” 

“Ah, Messieurs Fell and Sigerson. We shall be great friends, I am sure,” Henri said, and he started forward, practically dragging Fell along with him. His cane tapped on the cobblestones as he walked. “You’ve come to the correct person. I know all of the pretty women and more than a few of the ugly ones.” 

“Yes, but we’re looking for a lady artist. Apparently,” Fell said with a mean look over his shoulder for Sigerson, who just shrugged innocently. 

“I know, I know, and I know just the lady for you. It is a shame for you that you seek to avoid the establishment I have in mind, because that is where she is and all of these types of women, well, they travel in packs like dogs. It is why we call them bitches,” Henri prattled on. Sigerson hid a smile at Fell’s indignant face. 

“That’s not very nice.” 

“Neither are women, sir, and it’s good you haven’t had experience with them, for your sake. You’ve got a kind face, sir. I’d love to paint you,” Henri said. An embarrassed but pleased flush crept over Fell’s round cheeks.

“A philosopher as well as an artist. How lucky we are,” Sigerson drawled. Fell glared at him before smiling kindly down at Henri, whose handsome face was bathed in red light from the nearby cabaret.

“You’ll have to forgive my associate. He is always disagreeable, especially when he is working. I do not mind philosophy or poetry in the least. I’m sure we appreciate any assistance you might be able to give,” Fell said, patting the hand that gripped his arm still. The artist beamed at him. 

“Excellent, excellent! Follow me, gentlemen. I can take you to the woman who knows them all. If anyone can help us, it is the English Rose,” Henri said with a giggle. He motioned for them to follow him as he continued to chatter on. “There is not a man in all of Paris, or any important men, at least, who is not enamored of her, which is odd as you will see she is rather plain. It must be her hair, for that is how she received her name. All men make fools of themselves over those with red hair, even if they protest otherwise.”

Fell’s heart clenched in his chest, and a quick glance at Sigerson showed that he’d noticed the slight twist of his expression. Oh, but he missed his own red-haired curse. 

“I’m surrounded by fools,” Sigerson muttered, but not quietly enough that Fell didn’t hear him. 

“You _are_ a fool,” Fell scolded softly. 

Henri continued his monologue as if they were listening, leading them inside a large cabaret that boasted a red windmill over the entrance. Large, colorful posters greeted them as they entered, advertising different performers and acts. 

“These, these are my works,” Henri said as they passed them, his grin like that of a proud father showing off his children, shouting to be heard over the raucous laughter and loud music coming from within. 

The cabaret itself had an immense auditorium inside, where everyone and anyone could mingle together. There were strings of lights hanging in draped curves from the ceiling, illuminating the crowded dance floor below. The auditorium was lined in secretive little alcoves that held round dining tables and shadowy corners. The temptation in the air was palpable, and for the second time that evening Fell wished he were in Paris with someone that _wasn’t_ Sigerson. 

Henri led them to the back of the club, stopping to greet people as they went. 

“Mon petit, have you seen Jaques? We are to perform soon,” a voluptuous woman with a healthy set of legs on her asked, bending to kiss Henri on the cheek. 

“I only just got here, Louise. I’m sure he’s here,” Henry said, and she was snatched away, a blur of lace and legs, by a tall thin man. Henri laughed, turning back to the two men following him. “The Glutton. Do not leave your drinks alone with her, she will drink them before you even realize.” 

Their journey came to an end as they reached the very back of the cabaret, where there was a large wooden bar supported by thick brown wood columns. Men, in their dark suits and top hats, were crowded around, pushing in close to try and be near a woman who was seated on top of it. This was Henri’s Queen, then, and it was true, she looked as though she was holding court. Her body was similar to Louise’s, which was rather voluptuous and bordering on plump, but her tiny waist was cinched into a vibrant red gown trimmed in black lace. An impossible waterfall of red curls fell over her shoulders, perfectly framing her ample décolletage. Around her throat, there was a large black ribbon choker with a tear-shaped charm hanging from it. Her eyes met Sigerson’s, holding a sparkle that implied she’d seen the world and laughed at what she found. Her cat-like stare watched them as Henri pushed his way through the crowd, situating them at a far corner of the bar. 

“Henri, mon ange,” she purred, after she’d stood up and walked down the bar, her boots tapping on the wooden surface. She seated herself again, smoothing over her skirts, and then she bent to press a sweet kiss on the small man’s cheek. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I do assume you’ve brought me this handsome specimen for pleasure, after all.” 

“Mettie, my Queen!” Henri exclaimed. He hopped up onto a bar stool, hanging his cane off the side of the bar. “I have brought you two lost little lambs from your own country.” 

Her eyes, which were as green as absinthe, lingered on Sigerson appreciatively. She grinned and swung her feet playfully. 

“I’ve told you to stop doing that!” barked one of the men working behind the bar. He was a gargantuan blonde man and he was glaring daggers at the back of Mettie’s head. She shrugged. 

“Ignore him, he’s never had a day of fun in his life. Not to mention I wouldn’t want to deprive anyone the opportunity to view my best side from every vantage point,” Mettie said. She reached out for Siegerson’s hand, stroking it softly with her little fingers. “Has Henri been telling you all sorts of naughty tales about me?” 

“I- I do say, my dear, we are-” Fell started but was silenced by a look from Sigerson, whose thick dark brow was raised in a disdainful arch. He pulled his hand from hers only to wrap his own around it, stroking her in return. It was a sham of seduction, as Fell had seen him do many times before, but something about this place had him feeling nervous. There was an aura of debauchery that tasted almost _hellish_.

Sigerson silenced Fell with a disdainful arch of his eyebrow before turning his attention back to the woman. He pulled his hand from hers only to wrap his own around it, stroking her in return. It was a sham of a seduction, as Fell had seen him do many times before.

“He has told us that you might be able to help me with a little problem I am having,” Sigerson purred, letting his voice drop into an impossibly low octave that had even Fell, who did not usually care for Sigerson, shivering. Mettie’s grin widened, and a flush spread over her… cheeks.

Behind the bar, the large blonde was continuing to glare. 

“Shall we take this conversation somewhere more private, monsieur?” Mettie asked, shifting her shoulders so that her cleavage seemed more appetizing. Henri elbowed Fell, excited by the chemistry forming between Sigerson and the girl. 

“Please do! I shall entertain your friend while Mettie entertains you. It is what she loves to do, after all,” Henri encouraged with a saucy wink, linking his arm again with Fell. Sigerson, who lived to annoy Fell it seemed, agreed to the proposition. 

“Ah, very good of you. Come, Miss Mettie. Perhaps you _can_ be of some assistance,” Sigerson hummed. He wrapped his long, slender musician’s fingers around her plump waist, helping her to hop down. She barely dodged a glass of water being thrown at her from the direction of the bartender, who shrugged.

“Just helping you cool off,” the man said gruffly. She stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Behave, brute!” she scolded, but she led Sigerson away with a friendly smile. 

Fell whimpered. If Sigerson didn’t have an actual lead here, they’d never return to London and he was _desperately_ ready to go _home_. He had a bookstore to run! And he’d already been gone quite a long time by human standards. Not to mention there was that awful business he needed to settle.

There was an archway that was very easy to miss behind the bar. In fact, it seemed to imply it was for staff only and that no one was meant to be back there. It was beyond this dark archway that Mettie was leading Sigerson, and Henri tutted as they watched him walk away. 

“He does not return your affection,” Henri said, patting Fell’s arm. 

“What- oh! Oh, dear me, no! Not- I’m not, please not with-” Fell’s hands twisted in the air, gesturing and giving anxious smiles from sweetly soft lips. “No, no, I do not have any affection for Sigerson. Only concern, bound by my duty to- to take care of him, I suppose.”

“Then why are you melancholy? And in such a beautiful place!” Henri said, gesturing around them. The bartender made his way over, letting Henri order a few drinks to be charged to Sigerson’s tab, and returned his face expectantly to Fell. 

The flustered Fell huffed but then decided to admit, “I am anxious to return home and I cannot do that until our- our journey is complete.” 

It sounded silly when phrased that way, but Fell had no other way to explain.

“Ahh, so the person that holds your affection is back _home_ ,” Henri giggled. He motioned to the dancing women around them, to the gentlemen as well as the ladies that watched. “This is a good distraction, no? Surely the person you miss wouldn’t begrudge you a good time. Especially if you’re waiting for your friend. Mettie never lets anyone leave without a- hmm- a smile.” 

“Oh Good Lord,” Fell muttered, and he picked up his own drink. Henri cackled. 

“That is what your friend will be saying. Repeatedly,” Henri giggled. 

Fell allowed himself another glance around. He wasn’t a stranger to such places, per se. While waiting for his demons to awaken, he’d taken to all manner of distraction. He’d even learned the gavotte! He might as well give in to temptation this one time, for the assignment’s case, of course.

***

“You are not here for the reasons you pretend to be,” Mettie said, sitting down on the sumptuous red bedding. Everything in the room was red, as was she. It was the color of passion or blood, one could never be quite sure.

Siegerson paused, eyeing her warily, vaguely impressed at her guess. “I confess you are correct.” 

“And you are looking for a woman but I am not she,” Mettie said, grinning at him. 

“That is an accurate assumption,” Sigerson said. Mettie nodded.

“To assume would be to guess, sir, and I assure you, I never guess,” Mettie hummed. “In addition to a few other small observations, your delight at your cohort’s discomfort told me everything I needed to know. You are not appropriately attired for visiting our establishment for pleasure, one does wonder what Henri was thinking, bringing you to me. I know nearly everyone that is worth knowing, therefore you are looking for someone, a woman. I know many women.” 

The way her lips curved, like Fell’s did when he saw a particularly delicious pastry, left nothing to Sigerson’s imagination. She continued, seeming to delight in his discomfort. “You are not used to being on the receiving end of your own talents?” 

Sigerson’s lips turned downwards. “Again, you find me confessing in the negative.” 

“How sad for you. It is always refreshing to meet someone who possesses the ability to observe more than just the end of their own noses,” Mettie sighed. “I will help you find your woman, but I am, as always, a transactional creature at heart.” 

Sigerson let his eyes linger on the curve of her breasts. “What would you ask of me in return?” 

“Naughty, naughty, Mr. Sigerson. We will have plenty of time for pleasure,” Mettie told him. “I’ve been receiving some unusual correspondence. It’s always on scraps of paper, and they’re addressed to me so I know I am the intended target. They are very threatening little notes, monsieur. Perhaps you could find the source of this problem for me? And I could solve.. Several problems for you.” 

“I do believe, Miss Mettie, that we could make some sort of arrangement. I would have to view the messages in question, of course,” Sigerson said. Mettie nodded. 

“Of course. I would be happy to oblige you.” She let her hands slide over his body. “In many, many ways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please consider checking out my other fic here or come chat at me on Tumblr. No, seriously, I love to make friends and I'm never not online.
> 
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